Q'Tara's Legacy
by The Real Muse
Summary: A "What If?" story. What if the alien synth Q'Tara had not been able to repair herself at the end of 'The Angel of Death"? Continued on my home website
1. Default Chapter

A What If? Story-  
  
[In the early 1990's, evidence began to mount that aliens from the planet Mor'Tax were beginning a second attempt at conquering the planet Earth. Under military auspices and strict need-to-know security, a small mixture of scientists and military personnel took up the fight against this extra- terrestrial enemy. Waging war with high tech research and military might, the 'Blackwood Project,' soon became both the planet's first line of defense and her best hope at victory.  
  
The final episode of the first season was entitled 'The Angel of Death.' In it we learned that Mor'Tax was not the only alien planet interested in the future of mankind. Mor'taxians begin to die by the scores; a trap set by the Blackwood Project backfires, resulting in the capture of Colonel Paul Ironhorse, their security officer, by a beautiful, mysterious woman with the power to recognize and destroy the enemy despite their human 'host' disguises. It is revealed that the woman, Q'Tara, is an alien synth -- an android able to traverse time-space between her planet, Q'arto, and Earth.  
  
Ironhorse is hypnotized into trusting her and released. He returns to her warehouse base with teammates Dr. Harrison Blackwood, Dr. Suzanne McCullough and computer whiz Norton Drake to offer their assistance in her fight. Unfortunately, Mor'Tax discovers the location of her base and attacks; Q'Tara is badly damaged and each human seriously if not mortally wounded. Alien technology enables Q'Tara to self-repair; she then distributes life energy to the humans, healing them, before returning to her own planet, making the promise to return in one year to continue the battle.  
  
What if Q'Tara had not been able to regenerate herself after the clash with the Mor'taxians? Q'Tara's Legacy is an alternate universe version of this episode. I postulate on what might have happened had Q'Tara not had the power of self-regeneration. Two of the Project were obviously mortally wounded if not already dead; two less so and probable survivors. This story picks up after the final scene and before the coda of that episode.]  
  
Q'Tara's Legacy  
  
By: CindyR  
  
He awoke to a world awash in red; red mist dancing before his eyes, red hot agony filling his body and mind. Memory remained an elusive sprite, but gradually the mist parted and Harrison Blackwood came to the awareness that he was lying on his back, staring up at a great, chambered ceiling far above his head. He blinked rapidly, attempting to clear his vision further but the view remained stubbornly unchanged. The roof stared down at him mockingly, wavering in and out of focus and seeming to lean ominously to the right.  
  
He took a deep breath and made an attempt at movement, then gulped, clamping his stomach with one hand, breathing noisily until the nausea subsided enough for him to take stock of himself. The pain was condensing as well, flowing from his whole body into a sharp cramping sensation centering in the vicinity of his right shoulder. He fumbled for it with a shaking hand, staring stupidly at the red smearing his fingers.  
  
"So that's what it feels like to be shot," he croaked irreverently, having to fight to quell the hysteria that rose unbidden at the incongruity. "Not all it's cracked up to be."  
  
He closed his eyes, face going lax as he initiated an ancient Tibetan technique for mastering the body and suppressing sensation. His lips moved soundlessly in a timeless chant, his mind supplying the music to the litany. It was hard, harder than it had ever been, and he succeeded only barely, achieving more a fringe awareness than a true meditative trance. "Focus on the light within," he told himself aloud. "You are one with the light."  
  
Having gone as far as he could, he clenched his jaw against what he could not shut out and began to explore the microverse that was his own body. A true master of the art would have been able to block one by one the nerve impulses carrying the pain from his damaged shoulder, even regulate the blood vessels in his head to eliminate the blinding headache that was robbing him of mobility and thought. Harrison was talented but he was no master, and was only partially successful in his bid. There was simply too much to block. Maybe with a few decades more experience....  
  
The familiar phrase snapped him out of his induced trance. His eyelids flew open even as the pain crashed back down, reestablishing the consuming crimson tide and wiping away all traces of his trance. He fought it back gamely, slowly reemerging from the smothering mist into the gathering shadows of the great room.  
  
Room? Where was he, anyway? From what little he could make out from his decidedly unclear vantage, it looked like he was lying in some big gymnasium or warehouse. But how had he come to be here? And when had he been wounded?  
  
He broke the surface of awareness then, the past not completely revealed to his questing mind. Something scraped against his head when he turned it. Further examination proved it to be a sleek, booted leg clothed in black. Moving only his eyes, he followed it upward, past trim hips and slim body to the mass of black curls framing a delicate, utterly expressionless face. Q'Tara.  
  
With a grunt Harrison forced himself up to one elbow, taking a long look at the alien creation. Q'Tara lay on her side facing the window, and by the light of the dying sun he could see the burned circuits and massive internal damage the android had suffered when....  
  
When what? He couldn't quite remember. Surely she hadn't been so damaged when he and Ironhorse had gained her side just minutes after the shooting had ceased. There had been a hole in her ... its abdomen, but not the still- smoking conglomeration of wires and melted steel her chest and lower face now resembled. He closed his eyes again, struggling to recall, then shook his head, dismissing the worry until later. Right now he had more immediate concerns in the form flanking Q'Tara on her far side.  
  
"Colonel?" Making the supreme effort, Harrison wiggled awkwardly across the synthetic remains, grimacing at the renewed pain in his shoulder. He was bleeding still, and badly. Whoever manufactured that bullet should be shot, he thought, fine lips twisting into a humorous rictus. It should have taken my arm clean off! A nervous giggle escaped him, shocking him back to sobriety. Better get hold of yourself, Doctor. You can fall apart later. ... if there is a later.  
  
Blood escaped the body of Paul Ironhorse from two separate sources, but judging from the amount, not at a dangerous rate. Tentatively, Harrison reached out, pressing trembling fingers against the other man's throat, seeking a pulse. For awhile he couldn't find it, and a leaden weight settled in the pit of his stomach, the pain of impending loss overshadowing the fire in his shoulder. He leaned closer, peering frantically into the bronze skinned face, then jerked backward when Ironhorse loosed an oath. "If you're planning on kissing me, Doctor," the Army officer snapped, cracking his eyelids, "don't."  
  
Relief nearly spilled him back into the void, and the physicist had to breathe deeply to remain even partially upright. He did sink back, running a hand through his curly hair, his right arm lying loose at his side. "Thank god," he whispered with genuine reverence to any deity that might be listening. "I thought we'd lost you again."  
  
Ironhorse propped himself up, the sharp, stern planes of his face softening at the other's obvious distress. "I'm still here. More or less. Where are we?" With a heartfelt groan he finished sitting and peered around, squinting up at the high ceiling much as Harrison had done minutes before. "Oh."  
  
Harrison bit his lip. "Yeah. Oh. I wonder how long we've been here?"  
  
Ironhorse studied the window, dark eyes trailing from it to the lengthy shadows covering the polished tile floor. "Judging by the light I'd say it's after six. We've been here a couple of hours."  
  
"But doing what?" One hand trailing up to clasp his bleeding shoulder, Blackwood shut his eyes, boyish features creased with concentration. "Wish I had my tuning fork," he muttered, sensing rather than seeing the other's grimace. In lieu of said memory retrieval assistor, he hummed lowly to himself, summoning the missing images. "Okay, I remember you coming back and telling us about Q'Tara."  
  
"Only one is needed for so small a task," the soldier recited as if by rote. "But we came here to offer assistance."  
  
Large blue eyes snapped open, memory jolting home. "We were attacked," Harrison gasped. "The aliens knew where we were. I was shot! They had weapons..."  
  
"...enough to outgun us." Ironhorse's voice was grim, shaken despite two decades of combat experience. "Didn't take them long, either. Five minutes from the time they stormed us to the time we went down."  
  
Blackwood gulped, memories rushing in, a burst dam that had held back the red. It was overwhelming now, and Harrison drowned in the reliving. The shells had flown thickly, buzzing past his head like angry hornets. Providence had decreed he'd not lost his head then and there. As it turned out, he'd felt more astonishment than pain when the bullet had smacked home; the pain hadn't come until sometime later.  
  
The shooting had stopped only minutes later; the aliens had obviously accomplished their mission and departed, leaving them lying on the floor like so much carrion. He remembered the flame-hot agony of crawling to Q'Tara's side, the Colonel close at his heels, the conflagration doused with the shock of discovery upon finding that what he'd taken for a living, breathing woman had actually been a construct, perfectly in every detail. Scientific curiosity had kicked into high gear at the revealed circuitry beneath the synthetic skin. He'd been certain the wires were changing -- reweaving themselves. A self-regenerating system, perhaps?  
  
That's when it had happened: a brilliant burst of escaping energy had poured from the android and writhed around them like a live thing, then vanished as suddenly as it had come. He'd felt no pain -- had felt nothing, in fact, save the encroaching blackness, until he'd woken scant moments ago. If that was a hard radiation burst, part of his mind insisted on pointing out, they would all be dead in a matter of hours. They'd certainly taken enough rads in the past year to cut their lives short as it was.  
  
Don't think about that, Harrison told himself sternly, reining his drifting concentration only with difficulty. "How bad are you hurt?" he asked instead.  
  
The soldier shot him an irritable look. "Not as bad as I look. Right arm is just a graze." He lifted the limb, moving it experimentally, then used it to clamp his left arm. "The bullet went right this one, though; smaller caliber than I expected. Painful but not serious." He felt in his pocket for a handkerchief, and, with Harrison's help, tied it around the sluggishly bleeding wound. "That should hold it until I get some stitches in there. At least, I won't lose enough blood to pass out on you." He examined the knot, nodding satisfaction, then looked up expectantly. "I need to see your shoulder."  
  
"I'm fine," Blackwood mumbled, feeling nauseated again when the room decided to tip. "We ... need to find Suzanne and Norton."  
  
Ironhorse caught him, righting the scientist before the room could slide away altogether. "I haven't forgotten them, Harrison, but I'd prefer you didn't bleed to death while we're looking. Can you get your jacket off?"  
  
Blackwood did so carefully, mildly mesmerized by the amount of blood that saturated the material. Why is everything so red? Ironhorse gritted his teeth and forced his right hand up to the back of his neck until he could touch the long commando knife sheathed under his shirt. He slid it free, scenting the air with the faint aroma of oiled leather. "Jackass leather," Harrison murmured giddily, earning a wry lift of the other's dark brow.  
  
"Not going to let me forget that, are you?" Ironhorse said in as conversational a voice as he could manage. "I'll have you know, that's the finest sheathe money can buy."  
  
"A-appropriate," Harrison said, making a try at normalcy himself.  
  
The razor edge parted Harrison's jacket easily, spilling out the mobile telephone onto the tiles unnoticed by either. Ironhorse supported the injured arm on his knee and probed gingerly at the large bruise decorating the shoulder area. "No exit wound," he said, adapting a chatty tone to distract the scientist while he worked. "Must still be lodged here in the muscle." He pressed gently, evoking a muffled gasp. "Sorry, Harrison. I needed to check for broken bones. I don't feel any," he added making some attempt at comfort. "You'll be all right in a couple of days."  
  
"Terrific," Blackwood muttered, blinking away the tears the other's ministrations had produced. Contrariness forced him to add, "Aren't these things supposed to rip your arm off when they hit?"  
  
Ironhorse chuckled at the tone though there was no humor in his face. "You might have caught a ricochet. Be glad for small favors." He used the battle blade to cut strips from the bullet shredded shirt and tied them into place as a makeshift bandage, while Harrison Blackwood clenched the rags in a white knuckled grip, his teeth gritted against the pain.  
  
"All right now?" the soldier asked, sitting back on his heels and examining his handiwork critically. Blackwood managed a nod, but didn't waste time on himself. He raised both voice and head, peering around into the surrounding gloom. "Suzanne? Norton?" The two listened anxiously for any hint of reply, but only the mocking echo of his own voice answered the hail. "Norton?" Ironhorse caught his arm.  
  
"Over there." The Indian pointed to the tipped-over cart they had pathetically referred to as 'cover.' "That's where we were when everything went down." Helping each other along, the two made it to their feet and crossed the short distance, rounded the makeshift shield.... He froze, bracing himself on the barrier, brown eyes going wide in shock.  
  
Harrison was aware of him only peripherally and then not at all. His legs gave out and he slipped out of Ironhorse's stabilizing grip, collapsing before the wheelchair that carried the mortal remains of Norton Drake. "No." The plea was offered to the sky, half prayer-half invocation. "Please, no." Glazed, chocolate colored eyes bore deeply into his own, stripping him naked beneath their merciless scrutiny. "I'm sorry, Norton." Tears welled over his eyelids, gathering and falling unheeded down the light stubble on his cheeks. "I'm so sorry."  
  
Ironhorse gulped audibly and took a wobbly step forward, resting a hand on the other man's shoulder. "You can't help him, Harrison. We've got to find-- "  
  
"Suzanne!" the physicist finished, spying the lounging body against the wall. The two scrambled to Suzanne McCullough's side, kneeling by her inert form. If you refused to notice the blood caked in a stream from her lips, or the gaping hole in her chest, you could almost believe that she merely rested, lounging comfortably in front of the TV or chatting with her daughter. Long hair had escaped its confinement, haloing the lovely features in a glowing brown nimbus. "She's still beautiful," Harrison whispered sadly. "I never told her that. I should have at least once.  
  
"We both should have," Ironhorse said in a choked voice.  
  
"She may have been the most uptight lady I've ever met but ... she was my friend." Harrison completed the thought he'd started two years ago, allowing the words to drift upward on the dust-laden air. "Not much of a eulogy, is it."  
  
"They're never good enough," the soldier returned with quiet dignity. He did the woman the last service of closing her sightless eyes, while Harrison touched her hand. Her flesh was cold, and Harrison shuddered and withdrew, looking away. He nearly broke then, a soft, grief stricken moan escaping, but Ironhorse gripped his shoulder again, holding tight. "Hang on, Harrison," he said bracingly. "We still have to contact the authorities. In about a half-hour we're going to be inundated by police and military. We need to get our stories straight before then." Blackwood turned a pale face up to him, a question and cognizance in his bright blue eyes; Ironhorse managed a wan smile. "Neither one of us are going to be able to drive out of here, and we need to get Omega in for a final cleanup."  
  
At least some of that penetrated the haze. "Omega ... yes. My phone...."  
  
Ironhorse clapped him on the back, and only someone aware of the situation would have noticed what pains he went through to avoid looking at the duo corpses of his friends or the brittle, over-controlled look in his dark eyes that bespoke emotion only temporarily held at bay. "Where is your phone, Doctor?"  
  
Where? Harrison glanced down at himself, using his left hand to pat his jacket pocket. "I ... we ... it's next to Q'Tara." He waved in the android's general direction but when continued to sit where he was, his eyes fastened on their dead comrades, the Army officer reached down to pull him up, then gasped when the action pulled on his wound. That caught Blackwood attention as nothing else could have. He jerked his head up to stare wildly at the officer. "Paul, are you--?"  
  
Though considerably paler than he'd been even minutes before, Ironhorse managed a wan smile. "Minor strategic error," he admitted wryly, clamping his left arm. "Think you can make it by yourself?"  
  
Harrison nodded. He made to get to his feet then stopped and reached out, his fingers closing over the makeshift bo Drake had wielded against their attackers. He used it first to haul himself erect, then as a crutch, enabling him to follow his friend across the wide chamber at a rapid hobble.  
  
The phone was where it had fallen. Ironhorse dialed Omega Squad's emergency line and gave orders for evacuation without offering more than a few words explanation. He then let the phone drop to the floor and turned toward his slumped companion. "That was Derriman. He'll be notifying General Wilson to take care of the police."  
  
Harrison, his reality submerging under a thick layer of shock and grief, lifted his head toward the window. Ruby tinted sunbeams angled through the dirty windows, growing longer with each passing minute; it was getting late. He dropped his gaze, eyes widening as he became more aware of his surroundings. The circular room resembled the battleground it was: the floor was littered with shell casings and the gelatinous remains of alien bodies. Weapons and equipment lay scattered, the spoils of war abandoned for salvage by the dead. By his side lay the fallen, black clad form of the alien built synthetic woman who had called herself Q'Tara, as loose limbed as any mannequin. "I-I hope they hurry," he murmured drearily. "I don't want to be here in the dark."  
  
With a pained grunt, Ironhorse lifted his arm, resting it on Harrison's. "They'll be here in a half-hour. Just hang--" His conversational tone broke on the last word as he caught sight of a glint of metal from beyond the makeshift barrier. "Wheelchair," he choked, controlled manner crumbling for the first time. "I'm sorry, Norton." A shadow of infinite weariness passed over the angular features, turning the brown eyes black and as frozen as outer space. "Lousy war."  
  
Mutely, Harrison stared at him, then swiped at his face, surprised when his hand came away wet. Finally he whispered, "It was only a matter of time. The aliens take everyone." The tears fell harder, sorrow making him rock. "Everyone." He didn't react to the tugging at his sleeve, or the gentle beckon for his attention.  
  
"Harrison." Ironhorse, swallowed hard, staring with shocked pity at the other man's bent curly head, then slid an arm painfully across the slumped shoulders. "It'll pass, Harrison. It'll be all right." His voice was filled with such sympathy that the physicist's final reserves broke.; he lowered his head and gave in to the grief.  
  
Ironhorse pulled him closer, tears on his own face, mumbling words of reassurance, meaningless beneath the weight of a sorrow that neither could bear, while the shadows grew longer and the sun began its final plunge beneath the horizon.  
  
*** 


	2. Chapter 2

In the distance a siren howled, joined by another as they neared the building. Pounding feet and loud voices drifted down the corridor, heralding the arrival of both medical teams and the civil authorities. One, a beefy man in an Army uniform, took no more than three steps into the chamber before halting aghast at the sheer carnage. "Holy--!"  
  
"Looks like it was one major firefight," a second, shorter man commented, glancing around. "Come on, men, fan out. Find me some survivors."  
  
A half-dozen soldiers, guns drawn, separated, tensely scanning the room for possible ambush. The large man taking the lead was the one who first noticed the silent shadows in the middle of the floor. "I've got three bodies here. Bring up some stretchers, Frank. Looks like two of them are hit." He stooped next to the huddled figures, sparing the synth a second curious glance before touching one on the back. "Colonel?"  
  
White teeth flashed briefly in a relieved smile. "Good to see you, Derriman," Ironhorse greeted the man. "Area secured?"  
  
Derriman unclipped a radio from his belt, raising it briefly to his lips, then listening to the reply. Before he could report, another soldier approached, a tall, attractive female with blonde hair tied up in a cap. She bent to whisper in Derriman's ear after casting Ironhorse and Blackwood a hesitant look; the NonCom frowned then turned to Ironhorse as the woman straightened. "All clear, sir. But...."  
  
Ironhorse lifted his hand. "We know about ... them," he interrupted, glancing at Blackwood, who was staring at them mutely. "Get a detail in here to police the area, and have the ... b-bodies removed."  
  
"Yes, sir." Derriman gestured to the female, who saluted and moved off, though he himself continued kneeling by his commanding officer, sharp eyes gauging the amount of blood staining clothing and floor. "How about a trip to the hospital while we're at it?" he suggested tactfully, jerking his head at the silent physicist.  
  
Ironhorse followed the view, nodded wearily. "Maybe a short one. We've got ... arrangements to make. Harrison...."  
  
The sergeant made a single move toward him, but Blackwood retreated slightly, one hand closing convulsively on his friend's torn sleeve. "No. Can't leave. Suzanne and Norton...."  
  
The blonde Nora Coleman frowned. "He's in shock," she commented analytically over her shoulder. "Better get some restraints in case we need them."  
  
A deep voice belonging to a hulking youthful form in private's uniform acknowledged the order, stopping when Ironhorse uttered a barked, "Belay that." He turned to Harrison, tone gentling. "Easy, man. We'll take care of Suzanne and Norton."  
  
"Take care of...." Cloudy blue eyes cleared a bit, signaling the return of some awareness. For the first time Harrison seemed to recognize the man kneeling beside Ironhorse. "Derriman?"  
  
"Right!" The soldier smiled encouragingly. "You want to come with us now, Dr. Blackwood?"  
  
"I...." Harrison stared at Ironhorse, then down to the death grip he was maintaining on the Colonel's sleeve. "I guess there's no reason to stay."  
  
Ironhorse managed a weak, damp smile, carrying as much support as he was capable. "It's all right, Harrison. You're among friends."  
  
"My friends are dead," Harrison muttered, surrendering to the waiting darkness with a sad sigh.  
  
*** 


	3. Chapter 3

He was conscious a long time before he dared open his eyes. Finally curiosity overcame lethargy and he cracked open one eyelid. Just as he suspected -- red. Why red? Why not yellow? If he had to wake up to only one selection of the chromatic scale, he'd rather it be a nice cheerful color. Red was such a downer. But where...?  
  
Yielding to the inevitable, Harrison pried open his other eyelid and looked around. So the room wasn't actually red; sunlight streaked through the open curtains, dappling the room with the colors of the sunset. Or sunrise, he mentally amended, rubbing at his eyes. No way to tell how long he'd been out.  
  
A sharp twinge in his shoulder reminded him of the reason he'd ended up in this red streaked, sterile room in the first place, bringing with it the realization that his less than clear thoughts must be attributable to painkillers. Everything was fuzzy and his shoulder was a dull ache rather than a sharp one. He probed the wound gently, fingers encountering a thick bandage and sling holding his right arm immobile. Didn't feel too bad ... not with the pain dulled like that, anyway.  
  
Cautiously he turned his head, examine the casual trappings of a semiprivate hospital room. An IV stand stood to his left, explaining the bruise on his left hand. How long had that been in? And how long had he been unconscious?  
  
Long enough to have to go to the bathroom, he decided. He debated ringing for a nurse, then decided against it as visions of bed pans and acute embarrassment presented themselves. He could handle it ... provided he took things slowly.  
  
It took him far longer than he could have possibly imagined to make it the less than six feet to the bathroom and back. Trembling violently with exertion, it was all he could do to lever himself back up onto the narrow bed and lie there panting for breath. He fought to maintain consciousness, then surrendered seconds later and felt himself spiraling down into a soothing womb of non-existence....  
  
How long he slept he had no way of knowing but when next he opened his eyes, golden radiance streamed merrily through the drapes and a bird was singing outside the paned glass. Morning? At least it was yellow, he thought groggily, then had to smile. Where had that come from? Yellow?  
  
For some reason it was easier to face a yellow room. Harrison hesitated not at all before turning his head and looking around. A hospital room, or course. He'd been shot. The alien attack....  
  
"No." Whether the word was spoken aloud or in his head, Harrison Blackwood never afterwards could say. He was aware only that he was sitting bolt upright in horror as the details of the alien raid played themselves out in pitiless detail. "Norton ... Suzanne." His mind insisted on superimposing images of the two as they had been before the meeting with Q'Tara: laughing, glowingly vital -- alive! -- over his last sight of them with their cold, dead eyes staring sightlessly, accusingly into his own ... and their own eternity.  
  
The pain welled up but there were no tears. Not now. They would come later, he was sure. For now there was a sense of detachment -- of not quite reality holding the full force of the grief at bay and granting him precious time to think as clearly as possible through the morphine. Norton and Suzanne were gone -- dead. What of Ironhorse? Was he still alive? Or was Harrison now -- again -- truly alone?  
  
For the first time he noticed that a semicircle of curtain divided the room in two. He had a roommate. Could it be...? Fighting back a surge of irrational hope, Harrison sidled to the edge of the bed and swung his feet over the side. A wave of vertigo spun the room again, forcing him to cling grimly to the bedpost. After a moment's concentration the room regained its solidity, allowing Harrison to slide to his feet and take his first tentative steps toward the curtain. Unconsciously the scientist muttered little prayers under his breath -- phrases unuttered since early childhood; comforting words for the babe, desperate pleas for the man.  
  
Wobbly legs barely supported him across the distance, and only sheer determination carried him those final few steps around the curtain to the sheet-draped figure in the second bed. "Please...." It was a badly trembling hand which lifted the sheet half-hiding the dark head, but the tall physicist scarcely noticed -- noticed nothing at all, in fact, except the angular features revealed.  
  
"Thank you." Harrison offered the prayer to all the powers that be, gratitude filling his heart at having even one of his friends back to ease some of the pain deep inside. He wasn't completely alone. There was still one member of his team/family left to him.  
  
Legs refused to hold him any longer, spilling Blackwood heavily onto the side of the bed, relief sapping what strength fear had provided. "Thank you," he whispered again. Silently he studied the sleeping figure, drinking in the sight of the friend whom he'd feared lost. The slight rise and fall of the muscled chest, the flutter of the dark lashes against bronze cheeks, spoke of life -- a heady wine to a man lost in the sorrows of grief. Harrison drank deep and rejoiced.  
  
Gently he laid his hand against the cloth-covered arm, craving some form of physical contact, needing some reassurance that the man wasn't some drug- induced fantasy fulfilling the need of the moment only to soon vanish in a puff of smoke. But no, the skin was warm, solid, beneath his hand. Blessed reality! Harrison drew comfort from the touch, then reluctantly withdrew to begin the arduous journey back to his own bed. That was when he noticed a pair of dark eyes peering up at him. "Colonel? How...?" His dry throat betrayed him then, choking off any further speech.  
  
Ironhorse jerked his head at the nightstand. "Help yourself, Doctor."  
  
A water pitcher stood there, and Harrison clumsily filled a cup one- handedly; he took a hasty gulp, relishing the coolness as it slid down his throat. Then he offered the cup to Ironhorse, who took a sip of his own. "Better," the soldier sighed. "Blood loss will raise a good thirst."  
  
"I guess so." Harrison returned the plastic cup to the nightstand and sat regarding his friend with a relieved smile. "You certainly look a lot better than the last time I saw you," he commented, clasping his friend's forearm. "How are you feeling?"  
  
Amusement flashed in Ironhorse's dark eyes. He jacked himself to a sitting position, waving away Harrison's offer of assistance. "I'm fine, Doctor. It's you we were concerned about."  
  
"Why were you concerned about me?" Harrison asked curiously. "My shoulder isn't that serious..." Newly alarmed, he glanced down at the heavily bandaging. "...is it?"  
  
The soldier shook his head at once, much to Blackwood's intense relief. "Not that bad. You were unconscious for forty-eight hours and--"  
  
"Two days?!"  
  
Ironhorse scanned him carefully from head to foot, then leaned back against the headboard, obviously satisfied with what he saw. "Shock and exhaustion, the medics said. But we were beginning to wonder if you were going to come out of it at all."  
  
"Two days," Harrison repeated wonderingly, remembering crimson vistas. "Red."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Nothing." Why was he thinking of that again? Why did the color generate such feelings of despair? Not letting himself dwell on the problem, he asked, "What's been happening? Has General Wilson....?  
  
Ironhorse settled himself higher on the pillows, suddenly finding the ceiling a fascinating study. "He was here this morning. I told him about Q'Tara."  
  
I'll bet that tickled his military weapons mentality, Blackwood -- an avowed pacifist type -- thought unkindly, though the acid was old and had lost most of its bite. "And Suzanne?"  
  
"He already knew." Cherokee birth and military training had instilled in Colonel Paul Ironhorse an outward stoicism that had served him through more than one war. It frayed under Harrison's sorrowful gaze, and he closed his eyes but not fast enough to hide the single flash of pain that belied the dispassionate tone of his voice. "He'll be back for a further debriefing this afternoon. First he had to make some arrangements for Suzanne and Norton."  
  
Absorbing that took a moment, and even the cheerfully golden room could not dispel the pall of the concept. "He'll notify the families?"  
  
"I presume so, Doctor. It would be logical for him to do so."  
  
Harrison glared at the controlled features, choosing anger as brief respite from sorrow. "Who do you think you are, Mr. Spock?" he flared, forgetting the pain he'd glimpsed but a moment earlier. The anger cooled, soothed away by the memory of gentle fingers stroking his hair and a sad voice offering what comfort it could. The memory gave him pause; he more than anyone else, knew Ironhorse simply released his grief in a different manner than did Harrison. "Colonel, I'm sorry."  
  
"And what do you think you're doing out of bed?"  
  
Harrison jumped to his feet, startled at the interruption from the doorway. Unfortunately the action upset his delicate equilibrium, setting the room aspin again. He tottered and would have fallen but for a strong grip encircling his wrist and guiding him back to the edge of the bed. Desperately he clutched at it as his vision faded and returned, clearing by degrees. "Thanks," he muttered, leaning into the support and grateful he didn't have to greet their visitor from the floor.  
  
Ironhorse held him a moment longer, then dropped his hand, turning his attention to the petite Oriental woman entering the room and polite introductions. "Dr. Lee -- Dr. Blackwood."  
  
"It's about time you rejoined us, Dr. Blackwood," the woman acknowledged in softly-accented english. "We were beginning to wonder if you were going to sleep forever."  
  
"So I heard." Harrison used his left hand to return her firm handshake, then pushed himself to his feet, allowing the woman to slide an arm around his waist in support. Once more the room spun, and Harrison tottered, afraid to lean his full weight on her slender shoulders; Lee was sturdier than she looked, however, and easily took the extra strain until he was close enough to lean on his bed's safety rail.  
  
"Lie back down, Dr. Blackwood," she admonished, giving the tall, slender physicist a firm shove. "Your body still needs rest. And don't bother telling me you are feeling better, either."  
  
The physicist, mouth opened to say exactly that, smiled sheepishly instead. "Yes, ma'am."  
  
"And you." She turned back to Ironhorse, flipping long black hair over her shoulder as she did so. "I thought you had finally fallen asleep. Ever since you got out of surgery," she explained to Harrison as an aside, "he's been lying there watching you. And he wouldn't take a sedative last night, either. The third shift nurse was quite cross over it."  
  
Harrison adjusted his sling carefully, then seated himself at the foot of his bed where he could see his friend, a brief grin curling his lips when the soldier flushed. "Didn't know you cared," he quipped, amused by the other's countering oath.  
  
Inured to difficult patients by now, Lee merely rolled her large eyes heavenward. "Such language, Colonel Ironhorse," she remonstrated, drawing shut the curtain and cutting off Harrison's view. "I know your arm hurts. As soon as I examine your friend, I'll have Martha bring you a painkiller."  
  
"No shots!" Ironhorse shouted from behind the barrier."  
  
Pink lips pursed with annoyance, then Lee sighed and threw up her hands. "I hope you are a better patient than the Colonel," she muttered, returning to the first bed.  
  
"I'll do my best." Harrison quick skimmed the woman, appreciating her prettiness in some far off fashion. There was compassion in her brown eyes, though, that tugged at the sadness weighting his heart. This too was distant, a muted throbbing that matched the one in his shoulder. "You're a good looking woman," he startled himself by saying aloud.  
  
The unintentional compliment engendered an answering twinkle, though she continued to study the bruising around his wound. "Thank you. Does your shoulder hurt much?"  
  
"Nothing hurts much," he replied dreamily. "I don't feel anything at all. What kind of drugs are you giving me?"  
  
"Only the usual." Deft fingers unwrapped the thick bandaging covering the bullet wound, turning it into the light. "Hmmm. The puncture is healing well. Does this hurt?" She poked the reddened flesh, nearly causing Harrison to leap off the bed.  
  
"Yes, it hurts!" he snapped, catching his breath and summoning up an impotent glare.  
  
Inordinately pleased -- in Blackwood's opinion -- at the reaction, Lee nodded, adding insult to injury by patting his cheek in a maternal fashion. "Very good. That means there's no nerve damage." A middle aged black woman entered carrying a tray, which she deposited on a sidetable. The pretty doctor offered the newcomer a friendly nod. "Ah, Martha. We need fresh dressing here. Do you want a shot for the pain, Dr. Blackwood? No? Perhaps later." She continued to examine him, calling off a string of numbers that Martha dutifully noted on a chart. Finally she settled one hip on the edge of the bed, shoving her stethoscope back into the pocket of her lab coat. "You are doing very well, Harrison. We'll start you on P.T. ..."  
  
The initials didn't register ... or perhaps he did know what they stood for and couldn't quite dredge them out of the slow mud that was pretending to be his memory. "On what?"  
  
"Physical therapy," the larger Martha replied in an even contralto. "We have to maintain the strength and flexibility in those arm muscles. Before you know it, all that'll be left of that boo-boo will be an interesting scar to show your girlfriend."  
  
Boo-boo? Summoning up what remained of his strength, Harrison cautiously moved his arm under the sling, grimaced, and abandoned the attempt. "When can I go home?" he asked, turning huge, pleading eyes on Lee.  
  
The physician tapped her lower lip with one finger, brows drawn low as she considered. "You have someone home to help you? Besides the Colonel?" Blackwood nodded eagerly; he'd have sworn to anything at the moment. Perceptibly unconvinced by the enthusiastic reply, Lee smiled gently. "Maybe tomorrow then, more likely the day after. Depends on how you do."  
  
Another two days in this place? Harrison tried another pleading look, eliciting absolutely no response whatsoever. He lay back on the pillow, resigned. "Terrific."  
  
"It will go swiftly, Harrison." She gave him another friendly pat and glanced at the dividing curtain, the smile fading by degrees into a scowl. "Now I must see to your friend." She made to rise but stopped at the hand on her arm.  
  
"How bad is he hurt?" Harrison gestured towards the other bed, his voice barely a whisper and a knot in his gut. Drugged or not, the fear of loss loomed like a massive shadow, just over his shoulder. He swallowed heavily, striving to keep the trembling out of his voice. "Is he...?"  
  
"Don't worry -- he will also be fine. Better than you, even -- he is leaving the hospital this afternoon." Blackwood released her then and she left the bed to disappear around the curtain; Martha winked and followed. "I don't want any trouble from you, Colonel," Lee warned, drawing the curtain to. "The sooner I am finished here, the sooner your visitors can come in."  
  
"Visitors?" Ironhorse asked warily.  
  
"Quiet. Open wide."  
  
Harrison grinned at the response to that, then sighed to himself. Two days. He'd have to endure General Wilson's debriefing, of course -- who else could it be waiting to see him? The man would want every detail of the mission from the time Norton had first noted the multiple alien deaths later attributed to the alien android. Reality twisted in his mind, his consciousness seeking to withdraw from the ache remembering caused. Some events were blurred, the edges dulled by shock and grief -- the twenty-four hours during which they had believed Ironhorse dead, for example, was a total blank. Other moments shone with a supernatural clarity: he had only to close his fingers to feel cold flesh or to smell blood, and Suzanne's dead eyes would haunt Harrison Blackwood for the rest of his natural life. The firefight in the great chamber could have lasted no more than ten minutes; yet, each separate sensation was experienced as though in slow motion, one minute lasting a million years of time. Like Khe Sahn. A million nights long.... exactly as Ironhorse had described it -- the waiting to die.  
  
But he hadn't died ... only wished he had. Blindly Harrison swiped at his cheeks, his hands coming away wet. In the space of perhaps ten minutes, he had lost more than he had since ... 1953.  
  
"When they killed my parents." Like magic the sorrow loosened its hold, allowing a dull burning hatred to fill his innermost heart, hot enough to evaporate the tears from within. "The aliens took away my family again," he murmured, choking on the words. "Now it's my turn." Music sang lightly in his ears, its rhythm fury, its melody retaliation. He clenched his fist in a silent vow, turning his face heavenward. They're going to pay, he swore. No matter what the cost, I won't stop until every one of them melts into oblivion.  
  
He glanced up when Dr. Lee threw open the dividing curtain, dire fantasies breaking under the sight of a flustered looking Ironhorse glowering back at a just as annoyed Martha. "Oh, very well," Lee was saying in a disgusted tone. "But when that arm hurts you bad enough, then you'll wish you had taken the shot when I offered it." She swung on Harrison, almond shaped eyes flashing dangerously. "He is so ... so meshuginah!"  
  
Harrison's brows rose in unison. "Meshuginah?"  
  
The woman shrugged sheepishly. "My husband is Jewish. I think it fits him." She glowered again at the seemingly unaffected Ironhorse. "Martha, tell our visitors they can come in now."  
  
"Yes, ma'am." Martha disappeared carrying her tray and was soon replaced by the stocky figure of General Henry Wilson, closely followed by Sergeant Nora Coleman, both of whom were in civilian garb.  
  
Wilson crossed immediately to Harrison's bedside, broad face breaking into a smile. "Dr. Blackwood! Good to see you're finally back with us." He courteously offered his left hand, sharp blue eyes boring into the physicist's own. "We weren't sure you were going to wake up at all for awhile there. And considering ... er ... obvious possibilities, we had cause to wonder if there were ... reasons." Extra-terrestrial reasons, was the unspoken addition to the thought.  
  
Good enough reasons to eliminate me permanently, was what Harrison interpreted. Par for the course. "Be out of here in a day or so," he returned the greeting warily, braced, knowing what was to come and actually glad for the numbing effect of the painkillers.  
  
"Perhaps a day or so," Lee corrected firmly. She cast the newcomers a curious look but asked no questions. "Probably two or three."  
  
"Perhaps a day," Wilson echoed sympathetically. He nodded genially at Ironhorse. "How about you, Paul?"  
  
Undisturbed at being seen half naked in front of the pretty female non com, Ironhorse swung his feet over the side of the bed and sat up. "I'm being released this afternoon. Hand me that robe, Nora." The Sergeant's first name sounded odd coming from Ironhorse, though Harrison understood the reason for the lack of titles in public. Need to know, he thought sourly.  
  
Coleman held the robe while Ironhorse slipped it on carefully over his wounds. "I'm picking him up at fifteen hundred, sir," she added, stepping back around the bed to stand at her commander's shoulder. "I'm authorized to sign him out."  
  
Harrison watched them dully, envious at the chance to leave this place. With a jolt he switched mental gears, pulling his drug wandering attention back to the waiting older man. "General, I'm sorry about...."  
  
Wilson cut him off with a raised hand and a quirk of his white brows. All four turned to stare at Lee, who, to her credit, took the hint at once. She turned on her heel, pausing when she was only inches from the tall Nora Coleman. "I want you all to appreciate that Dr. Blackwood has been unconscious for the past two days," she admonished, not backing down from the other woman's scowl. "I will not permit him to be overtired on his first day awake."  
  
Coleman's fine lips parted to deliver what they all knew would be a crushing reply; Wilson gainsaid that by waving one arm agreeably. "We understand, Doctor," he boomed. "We won't be staying long." Lee studied him another moment, then left, lab coat swirling around her shapely legs. Wilson waited until she'd gone, then gestured an order at Coleman, who shut the door. "The room was swept this morning," he explained in a low voice. "It should be secure enough for a preliminary report." He tipped his head at the physicist. "You were saying?"  
  
Harrison cleared his throat, trying to speak around the lump there. "I'm sorry about..." He swallowed hard. It didn't help; his voice grew husky. "...about Suzanne. She was very dear to us."  
  
"As you were to her, Doctor." Wilson met the too-bright blue gaze, unashamed by the pain brimming in his own eyes. "We talked often about you -- about both of you. She ... cared very much."  
  
Silence fell, each man lost to his personal remembrances. Finally the spell was broken when Sergeant Coleman coughed politely. "Colonel, Omega Force has finished final clean up at the grounds; all evidence of the alien assault has been eradicated. No problem with the local police."  
  
"Very well, Sergeant. What of the Synth?" The woman looked puzzled and Ironhorse hurried to add, "The android, Q'Tara?"  
  
"Oh." The Sergeant shifted her weight from one foot to the other, in the unflappable soldier the equivalent of putting up a flare. "The Squad has transferred it to the Cottage. We're maintaining twenty-four hour guard until further notice. Sir."  
  
Ironhorse looked thoughtful. "I've a suspicion my next question should be, under guard against what?"  
  
Coleman squirmed again, fair cheeks reddening. "Uh ... the Air Force. Sir."  
  
The Air Force?  
  
Meaty features ruddy with annoyance, Wilson stood up and began to pace. "Department-9 again, Paul. They showed up yesterday demanding we turn the robot over to them."  
  
"They didn't get her?" Harrison asked, alarm sitting him bolt upright despite an instant bout of nausea. "How did you stop them?"  
  
"You have Sergeant Coleman to thank for that." Wilson nodded at the slender blonde, who had stopped squirming and was now returning a full glower. "From what I understand, she told the Captain in charge that if he took one step onto Cottage grounds she'd personally shove his test tubes up his--"  
  
"Sir! I mean...." The woman cleared her throat nervously. "I took what action I thought appropriate to the situation. Sir."  
  
Ironhorse regarded her impassively, though Harrison caught the twinkle in his eyes. "Yes, Sergeant, I'm sure you did." He turned back to Wilson. "Were you able to clear it with the White House, General? Or are we going to have to turn her over to the Air Force boys."  
  
Wilson lifted both hands, waving them in vague circles. "That's still up in the air. We'll deal with it after the funerals."  
  
"I ... yes, Sir." Ironhorse glanced at Harrison's stricken expression, then quickly away. He regained control of himself, managing to ask, "Have Norton's family been notified yet?" in a level tone.  
  
"This morning. We were able to contact one of his brothers in Los Angeles. He's flying in to claim the body tomorrow afternoon."  
  
"And ... Suzanne?"  
  
Wilson drew his hand across his face and Harrison was struck by how old the man looked. He'd aged ten years since his last visit. "I tried to notify Cash McCullough through that rag he works for. He's on assignment in Africa -- won't be in contact for another two weeks."  
  
Blackwood licked dry lips. "And Debi?"  
  
"Debi knows." The older man reseated himself heavily. "She'll live with me, of course. I've already told my wife to expect us. She'll need family around her now."  
  
"I agree." Harrison manfully attempted to stifle a yawn but it escaped anyway, making him realize just how weary he was. "I'm going to need a nap pretty soon."  
  
"I should be going anyway." Wilson stood and headed for the door, followed a pace behind by the blonde sergeant. "Get some rest, gentlemen."  
  
"But, General, your report?" Ironhorse started to stand, unwittingly using his more injured arm for support. He sat down again suddenly, loosing an oath.  
  
"You should have taken that shot," Harrison commented dryly, feeling very little pain -- or anything else -- himself.  
  
Wilson cocked a brow. "What shot?"  
  
"Pain killer, General. It seems the good Colonel is going the stoic route." Ironhorse sent him a murderous glare which he blithely ignored. "Now as for myself, I've had a better time in the '60's; however, I don't object to a nice, legal...."  
  
"Will you can it, Blackwood," the indian growled. "Good thing I'm getting out of here this afternoon; two days of listening to you babble, and they'd have to transfer me to a room with some padding."  
  
"Just trying to make conversation." Harrison winked at the blond sergeant. She scowled. He sighed and gave up. Bunch of dead heads.  
  
Inured by now to such arguments, Hank Wilson resumed his short trek to the door. "Come along, Coleman. These men need their rest. I'll arrange for someone to pick you up this afternoon, Paul; you can make your report over dinner tonight." With that they were gone leaving a vacuum in their wake.  
  
"The General certainly knows how to get things accomplished," Harrison noted, unnaturally amused by a blob of pink plaster on the wall. Dead silence greeted the observation. "Come on, Ironhorse, you're not going to sulk, are you? Not when I heard a whole new batch of jokes...."  
  
"Can it, Blackwood," Ironhorse repeated, turning his back.  
  
Harrison fell quiet, not in a laughing mood anyway but willing to say anything to break the cloying silence that hung over the room. At this rate, he reflected wryly, it won't be the Colonel who needs a padded room, it'll be me.  
  
*** 


	4. Chapter 4

The memorial service for Suzanne McCullough and Norton Drake was held five days later. It was a small, intimate affair with only immediate family and teammates in attendance. This included, besides Harrison and Ironhorse, General Wilson, Suzanne's daughter Debi and, of course, the Cottage housekeeper, Mrs. Pennyworth, who dabbed at her eyes constantly with a lace handkerchief.  
  
"I feel like I did when my husband was killed," she confided before the funeral. "It's a part of my life just gone."  
  
"I understand, Mrs. Pennyworth." Despite the sling supporting his injured arm, Harrison's dark suit was flawless, his shirt pristine white. Outwardly controlled, he drew the sobbing woman into a tight embrace, hiding the unshed tears shimmering in his own eyes against her hair. "We're all going to miss them."  
  
"We all do miss them," Ironhorse corrected from her other side. Formally attired in a dress uniform, his composure complete, the man looked every inch the officer, untouched and unaffected save for the unnatural stiffness to his bearing and stone mask across his features.  
  
Mrs. Pennyworth glanced at them with admiration, sniffing. "I guess I'm just not strong. Not like you two are. I can't handle...." She sniffed again, desperately fighting another bout of tears, then gave up and buried her head in Harrison's shoulder.  
  
The chapel door opened then to admit Norton's brother, Stan, who represented the Jamaica-based Drake family at these services. A year younger than Norton and the one who had been closest to the computer genius while they were growing up, he was a big man, powerfully built, and unsmiling. He was accompanied by a petite, youthful looking woman dressed in black, who hung on to his arm like a life preserver.  
  
Harrison gently disengaged himself from the sobbing housekeeper and crossed to meet them, leaving Mrs. Pennyworth to Ironhorse's care. "Stan?" The black man nodded curtly. "I'm Harrison Blackwood. Norton introduced us at the Pacific Institute of Technology two years ago."  
  
There was no return greeting from the man. Drake hesitated, studying the tall physicist from head to foot with hard brown eyes. After a moment he grudgingly gestured the woman forward with a short jerk of his arm. "My wife, Madalyn."  
  
The woman smiled tentatively, one hand brushing a short strand of curly hair back from her face. "Did you know Norton for very long, Mr. Blackwood?"  
  
"Harrison," he corrected gently. "Norton and I were friends and colleagues for nearly fifteen years. He was a good friend."  
  
Thick lips parted. Drake made to say something but refrained when General Wilson appeared at his elbow and extended a hand. "You must be Stanley Drake."  
  
The black man scowled, making no move to accept the handshake. "What of it?" he challenged truculently.  
  
Wilson's shoulders stiffened, his light eyes narrowing to slits. But he held his peace, allowing the hostility to pass. "I'm General Henry Wilson," he continued, allowing his hand to drop naturally back to his side. "My niece was killed at the same time as your brother."  
  
"Uh-huh." Drake eyed the uniform coldly. "And just how were they killed, Wilson? All I've been told is that some big, secret, terrorist organization blew my brother away then vanished without a trace."  
  
"That's right, Sir."  
  
The bigger man placed both hands on his hips, his whole attitude one of patent disbelief. "Yeah? So, how come the Man doesn't know nuthin' about it?"  
  
Wilson glanced at Harrison inquiringly. "Which man?"  
  
"The Man. The police." Anger flashed in Drake's brown eyes, so reminiscent of his brother's. "They don't know anything about any terrorist organization, anything about any shooting, and especially nothing about you." The peculiar mixture of college precision and faint Jamaican accent became more pronounced as Drake warmed to his subject. He broke off with a start when Madalyn touched his arm.  
  
"Stan, maybe...."  
  
"Quiet, woman." He spun on her savagely, then dismissed her with a gesture. "I want to hear what these people have to tell me about my brother -- including what he was working on and the real way he died."  
  
"Is there a problem here?"  
  
The quiet voice made them all jump, so silently had Ironhorse approached. Drake scrutinized him with the same attention one would give an insect under a rock. "Another white-boy friend of Norton's, eh?" he snarled, growing even angrier.  
  
"Mr. Drake was a friend of mine," Ironhorse replied evenly enough though his eyes gleamed dangerously. He waited at ease, outwardly relaxed though the tight muscles in his jaw showed him primed for anything that might happen.  
  
Forgetting Blackwood completely for the moment, Stan balled his fists and took a step nearer the soldier, bending slightly until they stood nose-to- nose. "Not white," he said with distant analysis. "Indian. That's something, anyway. Since when did Mister Drake have anything to do with the Army, Tonto?"  
  
Ironhorse didn't retreat an inch from either tone or bearing. He straightened his back another impossible inch, tilting his head to meet the challenge directly. "Norton's work is classified. You're going to have to be satisfied with what you've been told."  
  
Time hung frozen in the tense atmosphere. A full minute passed during which two pairs of dark eyes burned into each other, gauging, challenging. Drake's fists clenched tighter.  
  
"My friends, if we could begin?" The soft voice from the podium disrupted the almost palpable charge which flashed between the two. Drake blinked, obviously debating whether to accept the Indian's silent challenge to battle.  
  
"Stan, it's for Norton." Madalyn tugged at her husband's sleeve, breaking the spell completely. "Please, Stan?"  
  
An intense sadness settled across the big man's features, chasing away the anger in a rush. Shoulders sagging as though under intense pressure, life fleeing from his face, he resembled nothing so much as a deflated mannequin. "Another time, soldier boy," he muttered, then followed his wife to sit forlornly at the side of his brother's casket.  
  
Ironhorse and Wilson exchanged a sympathetic look, then Wilson left to rejoin Debi and Mrs. Pennyworth, who were already seated. "Come on, Harrison," Ironhorse muttered to the distressed looking physicist. "They're ready to begin." He prodded the man, who followed obediently back to seats opposite the Drake's.  
  
The service was short, lasting no more than twenty minutes. The Chaplain recounted the dedication of both members of the team, their warmth and friendship for each other, to all in attendance. "It is always difficult to lose a friend but even more so a family member," intoned the short, round, little man with white hair and wire spectacles. "Young Debra has lost a beloved mother. Suzanne McCullough cared deeply for her daughter, balked at no sacrifice to give Debi the best, both materially and of herself. Being a single parent is never an easy task," he droned on, warming to his subject. "But Suzanne strove to be the best she could be, and we grieve with you now, young Debra, at the loss of your mother at an age when you would need her most."  
  
The words precipitated a fresh font of tears from Debi, wrapped securely in Mrs. Pennyworth's arms. They struck home as heavily with Harrison, whose memories lived in his eyes. He had lost his own parents at an even younger age, watched them cruelly murdered by the same inhuman creatures that had taken Suzanne and Norton. Lip gripped tight between his teeth, he laid one hand across Debi's shoulder, using the other one to swipe at his wet face.  
  
"She was a good friend," the Chaplain went on, consulting some notes. "Warmly offering her caring concern to her comrades. A gentle woman and one who leaves a space in our hearts that once was filled with the soft warmth of Suzanne McCullough."  
  
A little flowery, Colonel Ironhorse noted silently, but it suits her somehow. It took more strength than he was capable of summoning to batter down the wealth of memories that filled his mind at the mention of Suzanne McCullough. There was a time not two weeks ago when they had first begun receiving reports that dead aliens were turning up in cities across the northwest. He had been nearly eaten up with curiosity -- so had Suzanne....  
  
***  
  
"...I'm dying to know who's killing all those aliens!" She tossed down the latest report on some decomposed bodies discovered in Washington, adding the papers to the already overflowing stacks littering her desk. "And how are they identifying them? Do you think they've got some equipment to pierce the disguise or are they notified ahead of time that a host is going to be somewhere?"  
  
"Perhaps they have a way of tapping into the alien intelligence network," Ironhorse commented thoughtfully, settling his lean form into her desk chair.  
  
Suzanne glared at him a moment and he smiled sheepishly and rose to perch on one corner of a lab bench. "If we could make contact with them," she muttered, seating herself and crossing her long legs, "learn their secrets, we'd be able to anticipate the aliens -- even set traps of our own. We could really start making an inroad into their organization!"  
  
"I just hope whoever they are, they realize how they're endangering our setup," Ironhorse reminded her sourly. "With the sheer number of alien bodies being discovered by non-military personnel, it's not going to be long before our security is compromised."  
  
One shoe dangled coquettishly from her toe, swinging in imperfect rhythm to the beat of a Reggae tune coming from Norton's desk. "Why, Paul, you sound almost ungrateful for the help! Aren't you glad we have at least one friend out there to help us?"  
  
"Oh, very grateful, Dr. McCullough," he teased back, appreciating the view; Suzanne had very good legs. "Unless it's one of those nosy reporter types you seem to be so fond of."  
  
"That, my dear Colonel, is a low blow." Suzanne huffed offendedly but a warm twinkle belied her words. "I suppose you would be happier to just wipe out everyone and..."  
  
"...let God sort 'em out!" they finished in chorus, Ironhorse bursting into a laugh. "You've got to admit we wouldn't miss any that way!"  
  
Suzanne shook her head fondly. "You're impossible...!"  
  
***  
  
....I hope He's sorting you out, Suzanne, Ironhorse thought sadly, making a great show at adjusting his uniform tie to hide the sudden trembling in his hands. If anyone in this world deserved better than she got, it was you.  
  
The words rang in his thoughts, mixing with the drone of the Chaplain's memorial. "And we must also remember Norton Drake -- scientist, comrade, brother to Stan and Madalyn. Norton was born the second of six children. Confined to a wheelchair all his life, his spirit soared free of his earthly restraints, allowing our friend to rise above the shadow of his handicap and become one of the top experts in the computer field...."  
  
***  
  
"...Do you miss not being able to walk?" Debi remembered the courage it had taken for her to ask the computer expert that question, yet had known deep inside that the man would not be offended. Though awash in grief over the loss of her mother, Debi would also miss the black scientist terribly. He had been so easy to talk to -- so open and friendly to a shy young girl -- that they had become fast friends, and she'd come to him with all her questions and fears. They'd talked politics, race, the problems a handicapped person faced in the world, and he'd treated her like a real adult. Norton had never made her feel awkward or uncomfortable over his lack of working legs or her teenage concerns, and Debi had grown to love him dearly and count him a replacement for the father she barely knew.  
  
She'd especially enjoyed watching him match that razor-sharp wit against Ironhorse or Dr. Blackwood; he'd never once come off the loser. Through falling tears she glanced at the two men sitting to her left and wondered if they missed Norton as much as she did.  
  
"...so we now commit the bodies of our two dear friends to the ground from which they came. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust."  
  
Harrison put his arm around the softly crying Debi, his own eyes filling. The child had forborne the last two days well, exhibiting a dignity and maturity far beyond her years. This last was too much, her loss too great. He held the child and remembered....  
  
***  
  
"...And that was when the Klingon ship fired photon torpedoes at the monster and blew it away!"  
  
"Blew it away? Oh, Debi." Suzanne slung a companionable arm around her daughter's shoulders giving her a squeeze that nearly swept the child off her feet. "You have definitely been spending too much time around a certain Army Colonel of our acquaintance."  
  
"Army?" Deep in a manual, Ironhorse looked up distractedly. "What was that, Suzanne?"  
  
"I said, you're contaminating my daughter!" Suzanne swatted Debi's bottom as the child scampered away to the window. She sniffed. "'Blew it away,' indeed."  
  
"Part of the Army mentality, Suzanne." Norton Drake laid his newspaper on the coffee table and held his arms over his head, nearly upsetting his wheelchair with the force of his stretch. "Ummm. That feels good."  
  
Ironhorse ignored the latter. He sat up straighter in his chair and scowled, the light of combat entering his eyes. "What Army mentality, Mr. Drake?"  
  
Norton shrugged, recovering his newspaper and laying it open across his bound legs. "You know what Army mentality, Colonel: catch 'em young, fill their defenseless little heads with all that flag-waving, right-wing military crap-trap before they're old enough to see through the Rambo razzle-dazzle."  
  
Ironhorse looked startled for a moment while he sorted the string of adjectives into some semblance of sense. "That razzle-dazzle, as you call it," he began hotly, "was responsible for building this country into the world power that it is. Without the military force of this nation, you would be speaking German right now. Remember World War II?"  
  
Norton smiled lazily. "Or Vietnamese. Remember Viet Nam, Colonel?"  
  
Ironhorse bristled. "Viet Nam was a mistake of the politicians, not the military. They--"  
  
"Gentlemen, please!" Suzanne threw herself onto the couch, her hands clapped to her ears. "I can't take it any more! If you're not arguing politics, you're arguing something else."  
  
"But...." Ironhorse protested, smoothing the pages of his book.  
  
"No, no, no!" McCullough dropped her hands, instead crossing her arms stubbornly across her breast. "Not today, Colonel. The sun is shining, the birds are singing and my daughter is talking like Sylvester Stallone. Couldn't we just once discuss something neutral?"  
  
Having watched the exchange with considerable amusement, Harrison uncurled his lanky frame, climbing gracefully to his feet. "I agree with Suzanne. No politics today."  
  
"And what do you suggest, Doctor?" Ironhorse asked acidly, turning his attention to the curly haired man sitting legs folded in the overstuffed chair by the window. "Far Eastern religions? Ecological disasters I have known?"  
  
Blackwood grinned boyishly. "I suggest a picnic."  
  
"A what?"  
  
The grin broadened. "A picnic. We've been working non-stop for almost two weeks, and I for one am ready for a break."  
  
"A picnic!" Debi left her post, jumping up and down in excitement. "Can we, Mom? Please? We can eat by that lake on the other side of the property. I know Mrs. Pennyworth has some fried chicken in the fridge!"  
  
Suzanne smiled fondly at her pretty daughter, smoothing her long blonde hair once. "I guess I have been neglecting you lately, haven't I, sweetheart? I think a picnic is a wonderful idea. I'll ask Mrs. Pennyworth to pack up that chicken.  
  
"And dessert!" Debi chirped, following her mother out of the room.  
  
"A picnic. What a marvelous idea, Harrison," Norton chortled, this time letting his paper drop carelessly to the floor. "Peaceful, serene ... neutral ground." He wiggled an eyebrow meaningfully.  
  
Less delighted with the concept, Ironhorse leaped to his feet, ignoring the chucking computer genius with a vengeance to tower over the physicist by the window. "Harrison, we have a meeting with a representative of the President's Cabinet in two days. We have reports to file, data to organize...."  
  
Unfolding his legs and getting to his feet, Blackwood stretched his lanky frame to its full height, a beatific smile decorating the boyish features. "Relax, Colonel, we're ahead of schedule. My report is ready to go and the computer files..."  
  
"Organized and on disk," Norton interjected firmly.  
  
"...are organized and on disk. Plenty of time for a picnic." He clapped the soldier once on the shoulder and turned to leave. "You are going, aren't you?" When the other hesitated, he shrugged innocently and played his trump card. "You never know what kind of trouble we might run into without you to protect us; I'd feel better with a little backup."  
  
Ironhorse goggled. "On a picnic?"  
  
Norton threw up his hands disgustedly. "Oh, let him stay, Harrison," he groaned. "He'd just be a wet blanket, anyway."  
  
That did it. The soldier stiffened before the implied challenge. "I'll show you a wet blanket, Mr. Drake." He glared back at Blackwood, stance including them both in the warning. "But if that meeting with the Secretary doesn't come off perfectly...."  
  
Harrison shrugged blithely, a gesture calculated to infuriate and placate at once. "I'll take full responsibility."  
  
Ironhorse's glare strengthened. "You always say that."  
  
"I guess I do at that."  
  
Norton wheeled toward the entrance, pausing to allow the soldier to open the door for him. "Ever play wheelchair Frisbee, Colonel?"  
  
The soldier, waiting patiently for the man to pass through, tipped his head. "No."  
  
Norton's smile was predatorial. "Come on, then. I'll show you how the big boys play. I'll even lay you a little wager I beat you...."  
  
***  
  
...The memory of that afternoon was one that Harrison would treasure for the rest of his life. The crystal blue sky raised everyone's spirits, and even Ironhorse allowed himself to relax and enjoy the autumn sun. They'd been a family that day -- a real family -- and now that family had lost two of its members. With a wrench, Harrison brought himself back to the present and the Chaplain's monotonous drone.  
  
"...pay our final respects to two who are forever lost. May they rest in peace." The Chaplain closed his book and left the small dais, pausing to speak first to the Drake's, then to Wilson and Debi, moving on to a knot of people in the aisle.  
  
Stan Drake pushed his way through the small crowd to his brother's coffin and stood staring at the dead man's waxy features for a long moment. Then, sparing no one a second look, he turned on his heel and strode out, Madalyn following more slowly. She stopped near Debi, who was still ensconced in Mrs. Pennyworth's arms. "I'm sorry about your mother," she offered softly. "And your niece, General."  
  
Wilson extended a firm hand, which was accepted bashfully. "Thank you, Mrs. Drake. My condolences on your brother-in-law. We'll miss him."  
  
The woman withdrew her hand and wiped it on her skirt. "Yes. You'll ... please excuse Stan. He's a good man, only...." She gazed helplessly in the direction her husband had disappeared. "They were very close."  
  
Wilson patted her arm. "Don't explain, Mrs. Drake. We understand."  
  
She smiled faintly and was gone.  
  
"I don't understand." The voice was weak, muffled in a handkerchief. Debi wiped her face, peeking from one man to the other around the older woman's shoulder. "I don't know why she had to die; she wasn't a soldier, she shouldn't have been there where people were shooting at her." She bit her lip, visibly fighting the tears again, grief becoming confused anger in the space of a heartbeat. "It should have been one of you, not my mother! She shouldn't have had to die!"  
  
Shocked into speechlessness, Harrison stood frozen, his eyes bleak with agreement; also surprised but reacting more smoothly, Ironhorse started forward, an involuntary motion that seemed to surprise him as well as the girl. "Debi...." He halted, uncertain of the words, his meaning clear "You're right. And I'm sorry."  
  
"It should have been you instead of her!" Debi spat at him with all the strength of a child's loss. "Both of you. I hate you both!"  
  
"Hush, baby, you don't mean that." Mrs. Pennyworth gathered the girl to herself, making soft crooning noises. "Colonel Ironhorse and Dr. Blackwood are your friends. You know that."  
  
Harrison pulled his glasses off his nose and began to polish then on his sleeve, an unconscious gesture done without thought. Bereft of their camouflage, he looked defenseless, somehow, lost. Not so, Ironhorse. Understanding born from many years of losing friends in combat softened the indian's hawk-like face from its controlled mask. It was he who opened his arms when Debi tore herself from Mrs. Pennyworth's grasp two minutes later and flung herself at him. "I didn't mean it, Colonel," the child gasped, clutching him desperately. "I don't hate you. I don't want you to be dead. I just want my mom back!"  
  
"I know, honey," he murmured into her hair. "It's all right. And ... you were right. She shouldn't have been there at all."  
  
Behind, Harrison continued to polish his shiny lenses, making no move to redon them, blue eyes locked on the duo with an unnatural blankness. He shook his head wearily, exhaustion adding years to his boyish face. He started visibly when Debi pulled back from Ironhorse and gazed tearfully up at him. "I don't hate you, either, Harrison," she said.  
  
He blinked down at her, grim determination replacing the shock, turning his sky blue eyes stormy gray. "It's not for nothing, Debi," he said more to himself than the child. "They're going to pay for this." Releasing the child, Ironhorse craned his neck to stare worriedly at the tone; Harrison never noticed him. "I swear, Debi," he went on, "the ... terrorists are going to pay for what they did to us. I promise."  
  
Leaning lightly on the child's shoulder, Ironhorse stood, dark eyes worriedly seeking the physicist's. "Doctor." He lifted a hand, dropping it on the other's lean shoulder, but Blackwood was too far gone in his own loss to notice.  
  
"They'll pay," he repeated, spinning on his heel as though the room had suddenly become unbearable. He fled for the door and then he too was gone.  
  
"Is he mad at me?" Debi asked timidly, sniffing.  
  
Ironhorse shook his head.  
  
"Is he all right?" Mrs. Pennyworth asked from the girl's side.  
  
Ironhorse shrugged, too tired himself to generate a convincing lie. "Are any of us?" he asked simply, trudging slowly for the door.  
  
*** 


	5. Chapter 5

The two men had little contact in the succeeding days. After seeing Debi and General Wilson off for Washington, the physicist closeted himself with the remains of the android Q'Tara, refusing food, drink or distraction while he applied himself to the study of the alien pseudo-woman. It was four days later that he emerged, unshaven and bleary eyed, to burst unannounced into Ironhorse's office, taking up a belligerent stance, hands on hips, before the polished desk.  
  
"I can't do this alone," he blurted without preamble. "Q'Tara's power is derived from a nuclear reactor so miniaturized, I don't even have any idea how she sustains fusion much less be able to figure out how to duplicate it. Katya is a nuclear physicist -- the best in her field. If we can contact her through the Consulate, she could be in this country by the weekend."  
  
Lounging negligently in his leather armchair, Ironhorse could only blink, momentarily taken aback by the abruptness of the entry and the exhausted incoherence of the other man. Tired himself if unrumpled, it obviously took several moments for him to figure out what Harrison was asking for. When it sank in, his face hardened into a mask. "That's not going to happen, Blackwood. We will not permit the Russians access to alien technology." He settled back in his chair, drawing one booted foot up onto the desktop. "You're just going to have to make due with an American scientist, second rate though they may be."  
  
The sarcasm was not lost on the other man, who stiffened. "This is an international problem, Colonel. The Russians have as much stake in the success of our project as we do. You have no right to restrict this information to a bunch of bureaucrats who don't know their--"  
  
"Those bureaucrats," Ironhorse interrupted rudely, "are only interested in maintaining the safety of this country." He drew himself up. "As am I. We are not calling in the Soviets on this." He pushed across a manila folder, lying practically unnoticed on the corner of his desk. "M.I.T. is sending over Professor Eugene Dickenson, an expert in cybernetic control systems. He'll be here by morning."  
  
The flick of his hand was a dismissal. Harrison, however, chose to ignore it. Blue eyes flashed sapphire, and he drew his slumping shoulders back. "You're forgetting who's in charge of this project," he retorted icily. "I have a right to choose anyone I please to work on the alien problem."  
  
The words had the effect of an electric shock, bringing the soldier leaping to his feet. Tension that had been generated in a blood-spattered chamber only two weeks before, grew taut, the reply as glacial as the challenge. "And you're forgetting who is in charge of security. I have the power to prevent anyone I consider to be a security risk from entering these grounds, methods of exclusion at my discretion up to and including ordering them shot on sight." Thin lips twitched, the smile carrying the smugness that came from a thorough understanding of his opponent. "I doubt you'll want to put an innocent woman's life in danger simply because you want a replacement for Suzanne and Norton?"  
  
Flushed cheeks drained in a rush as Blackwood went ashen, his fury palpable in his white knuckled fists. "Shot on sight?" he whispered, betrayal clear in his expressive eyes. "You'd do that?"  
  
It was the underlying hurt in the other man that more than anything else pierced Ironhorse's victory. He and Blackwood contested often, but rarely stepping over the invisible line that separated irritation from pain. He cleared his throat harshly, visibly retreating from that unspoken boundary. "No," he admitted, hard expression softening fractionally. "I wouldn't hurt Katya. But I can't allow her to be part of this, either." Command became reason; he opened one hand palm up. "Give me a break on this, Harrison. Try Dickenson. If you need a physicist later, I'll see what I can do."  
  
Anger continued to flash in Blackwood's blue eyes though his shoulders were drawn back only with an effort. Unplacated, he ran a tired hand through his curly hair, setting his jaw. "I'm going to call Katya in whether you like it or not, Ironhorse. If I have to, I'll go over your head." The fight went out of him suddenly and without another word, he turned and left, leaving a weary and suddenly lonely Ironhorse to stand staring at the empty room.  
  
***  
  
Dickenson, a short, stocky man of late-middle age, proved to be even less yielding than Suzanne had been when it came to scientific methodology. Muttering constantly under his breath and sucking his teeth between meals, he made meticulous notes on every detail, chastised Harrison soundly for his solitary research methods, and chortled to himself over every discovery. It took just over three days before Harrison fled the room. He wandered the grounds for awhile, unable to meditate, too exhausted to think, and finding no relief from the wind tossed sky and multi-hued leaves. He returned to the house hours later to find a typed request from Ironhorse on the dining room table, requesting a meeting as soon as possible. It was dated one week earlier. Harrison shrugged, stuffed the note absently into his pocket, and went off in search of the soldier. He found him in the comfortably masculine office on the second floor, dictating into a microphone.  
  
"...increasing efficiency ratings by twenty-five percent." Ironhorse broke off when the tall physicist entered the room, leaning forward and snapping the machine off. "You wanted something, Blackwood?"  
  
Harrison extracted the note, brandishing it like a white flag. "You memo'd me, remember?"  
  
The lean features creased then cleared. "Right. I've been wanting to go over the list of replacements for the team."  
  
The memo dropped unheeded to the brown carpet. Curiosity vanished leaving Harrison to sink bonelessly into a leather armchair a little to the side. "I suppose we should," he agreed morosely. He slouched low, bringing his feet up onto the desk in a pseudo-nonchalant posture that fooled no one. "Show must go on, eh?" he remarked jauntily though there was no humor in his face.  
  
Ironhorse stared pointedly at the other's crossed ankles for several seconds; when Blackwood refused to take the hint, he sighed and leaned backward. "Your delay in answering my memo was serendipitous. I ran the security checks on the names you gave me, Doctor," he began carefully, studying the other's face, "but I wanted to finish the shake-up on Omega Force before we called in new civilians."  
  
Not meeting his eyes, Blackwood nevertheless gave the impression of picking up his ears. "What shake-up? I thought you were satisfied that Omega Force was already operating at peak efficiency."  
  
Ironhorse slowly swiveled his chair until he was facing the large window overlooking the back of the estate. Outside, the sun shone brightly on the grasslands bordering the pond where he'd taught Debi to fish only the summer before. A few ducks flapped gracefully in the clear waters, giving the scene a distinctly pastoral air. "I'm implementing changes I've been contemplating for some time. Now that we're getting replacements anyway, I thought it was the proper time to take care of them."  
  
"What kind of changes?" Blackwood pursued suspiciously when the soldier paused.  
  
Leather creaked as Ironhorse lay his head back. "We've lost too many men, Doctor. Obviously, they're not being trained well enough to handle the particular kind of warfare we're waging."  
  
Harrison uncrossed his ankles and braced his sneakered feet against the edge of the desk, lean body now giving a genuine aura of alertness. "What kind of changes?" he repeated in a stronger voice.  
  
The leather creaked again, this time under a casual shrug. "For one thing, I've raised the standards as to who does and who does not qualify for inclusion in Omega Force," the other replied, tapping gently on the arm of his chair. "Under the new requirements, I've even had to disqualify some of the present members." A pause. "Sgt. Coleman was one of them."  
  
That brought the sneakered feet to the floor with a resounding thump. "What? I thought you were satisfied that Sgt. Coleman was ably qualified...."  
  
"Under the old requirements, Doctor, not the new." He half turned to shoot the taller man a piercing look, then rose to take a single step closer to the window. "Looks like it might rain," he commented as an aside.  
  
Harrison ignored the statement for the non sequitur it was. "The Sergeant has proven herself in combat, Colonel. I hardly think it fair for you to change the rules of the game just because you don't want a woman in Omega Force."  
  
Ironhorse turned again, impaling the scientist on twin beams of obsidian. "Omega Force is my responsibility, Blackwood. I'll make whatever changes I feel are necessary to insure the continued success of this mission."  
  
"You sound like an Army manual," Harrison snapped, unpredictable temper rising.  
  
"I sound like a soldier." The atmosphere crackled with tension, a palpable force in the still room. Ironhorse broke the contact, somehow managing to back off the threatened violence without giving one inch. "The United States Army doesn't use women in combat, Harrison. Sgt. Coleman was an experiment -- an experiment which, in my opinion, didn't work. Leave it. It's done." He held up a hand to forestall the acid reply already on Harrison's tongue. "Sgt. Dixon took over Omega Force two days ago."  
  
Lips thinned, Blackwood brought his hands together in a single, resounding clap. "Nicely done," he applauded mockingly. "Present the whole matter fait accompli too late for me to do anything about it."  
  
The soldier shrugged, dismissing the intended offense with a wave of his right hand. "I've begun a new training program as well. My men will be ready to face the enemy on the next encounter."  
  
Scoring none of his intended impact, Harrison resumed his slouch, still fuming. "You said you'd finished security checks," he resumed the original conversation through clenched teeth.  
  
Ironhorse left his post by the window and shuffled through a stack of files neatly arranged on one corner of the desk, passing over a computer printout from near the bottom. "Some of these washed out. Professor Blanchard failed on medical grounds." Harrison groaned loudly but was ignored. "Doctors Cunningham and Milburn don't have the necessary clearance."  
  
The curly haired physicist ticked off the names sardonically on his fingers. "That leaves us with an even dozen computer and cybernetics experts, not to mention the biologists."  
  
Ironhorse picked up a separate folder, this one labeled in yellow. He flipped it open. "I didn't understand this request. Are you asking for one microbiologist or six?"  
  
"Both." Harrison smiled at the puzzled frown. "It became obvious over the past year that one microbiologist, no matter how good she ... they were, would not be able to handle the research needs of the Project. Creating radiation-resistant bacteria was something Suzanne had pretty much despaired of doing. She thought -- and I agreed -- that what we need is a research team assigned to that particular project, and that project alone. The entire war could hinge on that single discovery."  
  
Ironhorse clasped his hands behind his back in a parade rest. "I see your point. And you want to set up the team here at the Cottage?"  
  
"Not necessarily." He tossed the printout back onto the desk then slumped back down, resting on his spine. "Being pure research, this doesn't have to be under any supervision. Microbiology is not my field anyway."  
  
Ironhorse also reseated himself and scrawled his signature to the bottom of the form before shoving it aside. "Then with your permission, Doctor, I propose that we turn that aspect of the Blackwood Project over to General Wilson."  
  
Blackwood snorted something derogatory. "The Blackwood Project," he mumbled, lips twisting into a sneer. He deigned raise his head at that last, though. "May I ask why General Wilson?"  
  
"You're aware," the other began slowly, "that the Government maintains labs already dedicated to discovering new methods of countering a biological attack by the enemy?"  
  
Harrison's sneer returned at the carefully phrased statement. "Now you sound like a brochure." But the words were too weary to convey offense. "You feel we should utilize one of these established defense labs to work on the alien problem?"  
  
"Don't you?"  
  
The question was acknowledged with a short nod. "They're going to need to change their security procedures."  
  
Ironhorse tossed his head. "No problem. In some facilities, tight security is accepted as the norm, not the exception. A little thing like adding a Geiger counter to the grid isn't even going to raise an eyebrow."  
  
Harrison sighed. "Normal is boring anyway."  
  
"You sound like a bleeding heart hippy."  
  
"I am a bleeding heart hippy."  
  
"Oh."  
  
The dialogue was so normal that suddenly the tension which had existed between them since the deaths of their comrades evaporated, noticeably lightening the atmosphere of the room. Both men exchanged a wry smile. "I thought I'd forgotten how to smile," Harrison said as it faded.  
  
The Indian's face blanked. "Not much to smile about. In a war, you learn to take it all as business."  
  
"Not always. Not between friends." Ironhorse said nothing and Harrison frowned. "We are friends, aren't we?"  
  
"Of course," came the too quick answer.  
  
Harrison's frown deepened. "Are we?"  
  
Ironhorse shifted uncomfortably, as though confused by the question. "What's your point, Doctor? Do you doubt me?"  
  
Harrison dropped his eyes, refusing to meet the inquiring dark ones. "I'm ... I remember what you said ... almost a year ago. You said combat taught you not to get too close to anyone. Now that Suzanne and Norton are gone...."  
  
"You think it now applies to you."  
  
Harrison hesitated again. He picked up a heavy crystal weighting papers on one corner of the desk; it glittered, prisming the sunlight into a rainbow of color. He glanced up at the continued silence, blue eyes vulnerable with the same open loneliness that had once lived behind his friendly smile with the team's inception but had slowly vanished over the past year. "Does it?"  
  
Rather than the flat rejection Harrison obviously expected, Ironhorse's face held a sad resignation, but tempered with an acceptance that the physicist had never been able to achieve. The soldier rose and circled the desk, coming to rest a hand on the other's lean shoulder; Harrison followed the movement only with his eyes. "You're not ready to believe me about this yet, Harrison," Ironhorse said softly, "but no, it doesn't apply to you. I don't get too close to many people, not because I might lose them -- that's a part of life and combat I'm used to. I've managed to survive a lot of encounters my friends didn't. I keep my distance because emotions for the wrong person are a vulnerability in battle. I know you. You're crazy, screwed up as they come, but I can't think of anyone I'd rather have beside me in this war."  
  
Some of the weariness leeched out of the other man's boyish features, an answering trace of warmth touching the indian's ruddy skin. These were no more than traces, however, not able to banish the loss or fully recover the close relationship between them. Ironhorse was right -- Harrison wasn't ready despite the need. "Thanks," he said nonetheless because it was expected of him for such a generous admission.  
  
Ironhorse nodded graciously, and Harrison levered himself out of the seat. With leaden steps he turned and left the room, not looking back. Each man was acutely aware of the second victory the enemy had scored, for by claiming the lives of two members of the team, they had claimed the souls of two more. It was going to be a very long war indeed.  
  
*** 


	6. Chapter 6

Sgt. Dixon backed slowly away from the clearing, gaining the cover of the underbrush mere seconds before a tiny blonde woman carrying an AK-47 would have tripped over him. Cancer had eaten away most of her jaw and throat, the results of the hard radiation necessary to maintain her life. Dixon shuddered. He'd seen worse -- far worse -- in Viet Nam, had undergone extensive training specifically aimed at combating the alien menace nearly two months, but seeing the real thing was a far cry from the training simulators. He wanted to gag, forcibly rejected the instinct, dragging his attention back to the more immediate problem than his queasy stomach. He'd have time to score a Bromo later; right now his momentary lapse in concentration could well spell disaster both for himself and for his men.  
  
He retreated farther toward his own lines, locating his Commander's position in a small thicket more by accident than design. Even there in relative obscurity he remained hunkered down, keeping his six-foot, four inch frame as close to the ground as possible. "Situation exactly as expected, sir," he reported in a low voice. "Small warehouse buffered by woods for a quarter mile before the first habitation. I counted fourteen moving through the window; perimeter is guarded by a half-dozen more. Suggest we take out the guard silently before initiating the full assault."  
  
Ironhorse considered the advice, weighing his options. "Too risky, Sergeant," he decided at last. "If even one of them is able to give an alarm before we're in position, the aliens stand a good chance of slipping through our lines. If they bolt, we've got enough men to corner them against that outcropping." He pointed to the cliff face protecting the tiny warehouse to their west, no more than the remains of an ancient hill eroded to a thirty foot rise. "If they try to hole up in the building, we can always wait them out." He grinned wolfishly. "Not quietly, of course."  
  
"Yes, sir," Dixon approved heartily, managing a semi salute despite his commander's supine posture; somehow, Ironhorse always had that effect on him.  
  
Ironhorse jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the tall non-com, who straightened fractionally. "Dixon. Rogers," he added to a mustached corporal hovering nearby. "You two take Bravo Squad and cover the south. Spread out by twos to prevent penetration. Order the men to not break visual contact with their designated partners." He glanced at his watch. "Five minutes ... mark."  
  
"Mark," Dixon echoed; Rogers grunted affirmation.  
  
Ironhorse drew the big Beretta hanging at his hip, taking a moment to expertly check the load. "Go to it. And gentlemen..." They turned back. "...no mercy."  
  
Dixon used the opportunity to sneak a peek at the only civilian among them. Though this was their first actual mission together, he'd come to know the Colonel as well as he knew himself: a driven, seasoned warrior, who demanded even more of himself than he did his men. But Blackwood.... Dixon shook his head. All he knew about the youthful man was that he was some kind of genius -- astrophysicist, he thought, who tended more toward brooding than camaraderie, and never returned either the men's smiles or jokes. It was rumored that the Doctor hadn't always been like this -- Derriman had said he used to drive their commanding officer crazy with wild jokes and pranks. He was also, so scuttlebutt had it, a pacifist -- it was obvious he wasn't carrying weaponry. What was he doing here, then? And how had he come to be involved on the battlefield?  
  
Blackwood looked up, then, impaling Dixon with a sapphire-steel gaze, and Dixon understood. Whatever had sucked the scientist into this cesspool of a war was personal ... and perhaps more shackling than for any of them.  
  
Dixon exchanged a single look with Rogers, then they were heading for the bush, leaving Colonel Paul Ironhorse and Doctor Harrison Blackwood stooped under cover. Ironhorse again glanced at his watch. "Go back to Checkpoint Alpha, Doctor. I'm going forward to join my men."  
  
"No way, Colonel," Harrison asserted positively, his tone brooking no argument. "I was the one who located this alien shindig, I'm going to see the job through now."  
  
Irritated at any delay, Ironhorse glanced at him impatiently. "Interpreting the data from Norton's computer alarm was your job, Harrison. It's done. Now get back and let me do mine." Having worked with his own men long enough to take obedience for granted, he took a crouching step forward; a nearly inaudible crackle behind him made him stop. He showed no visible surprise at turning to find himself nose-to-nose with Blackwood. "How about obeying orders just once?" he suggested in a resigned tone.  
  
Blue eyes, bright for the first time since the death of their teammates, sparkled back at him, adrenaline and having something to do lending color to Harrison's drawn features. "This is my fight, too," he stated flatly, making to brush aside the other man. Easier said than done.  
  
In a flash the indian had holstered his gun and snagged Harrison's wrist as the man went by, locking it in a grip of iron. "You're going to listen to me," he growled, dragging him to a stop. "You've been walking on the edge since Suzanne and Norton died..." Harrison flinched and jerked at his wrist; Ironhorse didn't release him; rather, used his free hand to snag the front of the man's flannel shirt, twisting the material. "...but I'm not going to let that get me or my men killed. Or yourself," he added without softening.  
  
Surprised into immobility by the action, Blackwood could only stare, lean face blank. Then anger touched it, rising the flush in the handsome features. "I haven't managed to get you killed so far," he snapped back, giving the other man a violent shove. "Let go of me."  
  
Rather than obeying, and aware of the other man's prowess with some of the martial arts, Ironhorse yanked hard on his shirt and twisted his wrist, throwing Blackwood off balance to his knees. He leaned dangerously closer, hawk-like face a mask. "I'm not putting my men at risk for you," he snarled. "There won't be any more deaths for incompetence."  
  
Hands clasped now around the soldier's, Blackwood froze at the implication, going white to the lips. "Are you saying Suzanne and Norton's deaths were because of me?"  
  
That shook the soldier out of his fury. Realizing he'd gone to far, he shook his head, loosening his hold. "No. I'm just trying to run a military campaign, and I can't stop to worry about whether you'll be following orders or pushing ahead into a bullet." The sparkle faded from Harrison's eyes; he swallowed, and Ironhorse released him. "Go back to Checkpoint Alpha," the soldier repeated. "You'll be called in to interpret the alien setup after the area is secured."  
  
Once more Ironhorse turned to go, barely checking at the almost inaudible, "Be careful," from behind.  
  
Harrison watched the olive clad form move off, then turned in the indicated position, shoulders slumping. Checkpoint Alpha was a thousand yards to the west, located on a diagonal near where the woods met the Sacramento housing project. A truck containing communications and tracking equipment waited there, manned by a young electronics specialist and a grim-faced sentry charged with protecting the area.  
  
Harrison made his way across a little hill separating the lines, cursing to himself as branches and nettles tore at his flesh. Despite his back-to- nature philosophy, Harrison Blackwood was city born and bred, more used to the sacred and comfortable halls of academe than the harsh rigors of the woods, no matter how near civilization lay. Gamely he pressed on, confused and depressed at his own acquiescence and wondering at Ironhorse's motivation for sending him back ... and his own motivation for going. "Was it my fault they're dead?" he asked himself for the thousandth time, guilt adding to the depression.  
  
There was no answer from within; oddly enough, however, there was one from without in the form of a very large hand on his collar terminating his forward motion rudely. He jerked back, startled, the action freeing his shirt. "Oh, boy," he breathed, fear settling heavy in his gut. The massive form reaching for him had obviously once belonged to a weight lifter of some kind -- the body was still clad in only speedos and sneakers, muscles rippling across the bare chest. The smile decorating the dark skinned features had probably once been boyishly charming; now it was a contemptuous sneer, the eyes emotionless black pits.  
  
"Stop, human," it enunciated, making no pretense at normality. A smaller but no less muscular form stepped out of the underbrush, female and lighter skinned, and wearing bright pink spandex that contrasted sharply with the bleached hair. The two had obviously been taken together -- lovers in life, comrades in death.  
  
Harrison was no soldier but he was far from helpless, whatever Ironhorse might think. With a sudden motion, he swung at the big negro's face, throwing his full weight into the blow. The alien's head rocked back sharply, teeth snapping together with real force. Harrison used the precious seconds this afforded him to sprint several yards to an ancient oak and snap off a stout branch. "I'm ready for you," he grunted, boldly turning to face his attackers, despite the dread that made his face gleam with sweat. "Come on. You're not afraid of one opponent, are you?" Inhuman though the opponent might be, the dig struck home as the scientist had hoped it would. Should these two call for help, the entire operation could be compromised, costing the lives of Ironhorse and his soldiers. It was up to him to keep these two busy for at least the next two and one-half minutes. He swung the branch challengingly. "No more lives," Harrison murmured, breath coming in pants.  
  
The two hesitated, confused by the unexpected defiance from the slender, unprepossessing human. The bodies they inhabited had once reveled in their physiques, knowing very little resistance to anything they cared to do. But to be opposed by a human half their size? Unthinkable! The contemptuous smile on the male widened as Harrison advanced swinging.  
  
The aliens circled from opposite directions, preventing him from escaping. Harrison selected the one closest to him, the male, who had recovered remarkably fast from that first punishing blow. The human allowed the dark skinned once-human to come within five feet of him before acting. Using a graceful kendo move taught him by Drake, he swung wide, using the motion to reverse the oak branch until the tip faced his foe. A feint, a lunge ... and the branch buried itself several inches in the creature's belly. It would have proved a killing blow but for the fact that the alien had retreated a step, allowing distance to dissipate the energy. Still it was enough to double over the host body, pain forcing it back another step. Harrison used the opportunity to withdraw the stake and reverse the swing, again using the branch as a club. Caught unawares by the grace and suddenness of the attack, the olive skinned female walked right into the blow, the impact against her right temple staggering her back.  
  
"Che-da-ko," she managed, shaking her head and advancing again. Harrison stood ready.  
  
Unfortunately, he wasn't ready enough. Talented though he might be, lack of experience made him underestimate the recovery time of the first alien. While he was still bringing his makeshift bo around, the negro had already straightened. With the speed of a striking cobra it latched onto the end of the oak branch and jerked it from Harrison's sweaty grip. The man cried out as the rough bark scraped the skin from both hands; it was just the diversion the second alien needed. The blonde sprang forward, delivering a powerful blow aimed at the point of Harrison's jaw. Had it landed properly it would have snapped his neck for sure, but fate intervened, lending an ironic hand to the fray. Harrison stepped backward ... tripping neatly over the discarded branch just as the woman's blow landed. He caught it higher, along the cheek, more glancing than she'd intended. Badly dazed, he was slammed back into the oak tree by a one-two punch to the stomach, eliciting a sharp pain in his abdomen. He sat down hard, gasping for breath, regarding the nearing aliens with that odd mixture of horror and loathing with which they always affected him.  
  
Utter quiet settled in the miniature clearing; no bird sang, no insect chirped. Even the wind had gradually died down in deference to the occasion. In that supernal still, one could plainly hear the ripping sound made by the passing of that horrible third hand through the muscular flesh of the male's chest. A small geyser of body fluids preceded its emergence, followed by the chlorophyll-tinged skin of the alien organism.  
  
Eyes locked on that abomination, Harrison cringed until his back was pressed against the tree; unable to go any farther, he could only watch in paralyzed horror as the ex-body builder knelt beside him; waving obscenely, the hand extended further until the fingers were wrapped around Harrison's neck. "All humans will die," he intoned in a rough bass, tightening the grip.  
  
Blackwood beat against the green hand, strangling in that powerful hold. The pain in his head and stomach faded into a comfortable lassitude only spoiled by the burning in his lungs. Blackness intruded ... then was gone, leaving Harrison with the vision of the alien pulling away with jerky, uncoordinated movements. Surprise etched itself across the dark features, wiping away the contempt as though it had never been. It straightened and turned, revealing the hilt of the long battle blade Ironhorse carried sheathed at his back. It stuck there now, an obscene addition to the already ravaged body. The wound gurgled green, the flesh began to bubble and dissolve even as the flow slowed to a stop.  
  
The second alien stared stupidly at the sight. Suddenly understanding the implicit threat to its own existence, she spun to face the lean figure just entering the clearing. "I'm gonna off you for that!" she snarled in a bizarre mixture of extra-terrestrial and Muscle Beach.  
  
Ironhorse brought up the Beretta but too late! In a sudden rush -- no tactics, no strategy but with the speed of a cheetah, the female sprang. The gun flew free when she hit; she twisted, intending to pinion the soldier with those over-developed arms, but Ironhorse struck first, his right fist catching her solidly in the throat. She fell back, eyes bulging with increased internal pressure, vocal cords so paralyzed that she was no longer able to utter a single shout.  
  
Damaged though she might be, the alien was far from out of the game. She came at the soldier again swinging. Ironhorse blocked the punch to his stomach, sidestepped a kick to the groin, and countered with his left hand, catching the once-woman just above the nose and between both eyes with the curiously bent knuckle of his middle finger. There was a dull crunch as the paper thin bone gave way, driving fragments deep into the creature's brain and dropping her dead before she hit the ground.  
  
"What ... what was that?" Blackwood breathed, impressed.  
  
Ever cautious, Ironhorse gave both melting bodies a cursory glance before squatting by his friend. He took Harrison's chin in his palm and tilted his face up, frowning at the darkening bruise that decorated one side of his face. "It's called the Eye of the Phoenix," he explained, next checking the blue eyes. "Are you all right?"  
  
"I'm fine." Harrison struggled to get to his knees, then abandoned the attempt and slumped back against the tree, wrapping one arm across his stomach and shutting his eyes. "Sort of. The Cavalry was just in time."  
  
The soldier's thin lips twisted in a brief smile. "The Army aims to please. We--"  
  
A ham-sized fist appeared from nowhere, sweeping around in an indelicate arc from behind to catch the soldier square in the nose. Ironhorse sailed unsophisticatedly over Harrison's body, hitting the ground with a thud. He was up again at once, blood streaming down his face, shaking his head to clear it. He barely avoided the newcomer's second blow, ducking in time to allow a wiry arm to pass over his left shoulder. The third, heretofore unseen alien was a tall, leanly built oldster with an incongruous cherry stem pipe clenched between decayed lips.  
  
"You have destroyed my triad," it growled, circling with all the deftness of a grizzly. "Now I shall destroy humans."  
  
It easily blocked Ironhorse's feint, moving slightly to counter the leverage the Colonel was seeking. Obviously, the old timer had had some knowledge of the martial arts in life. It lashed out with its right foot, breaking through Ironhorse's defenses and catching him viciously in the unprotected solar plexus. The soldier rode it backwards but was still hard put to draw a breath. Temporarily staggered, he was unable to avoid the possessed man's rush, or to block the wiry arms that locked around his ribcage and began to squeeze.  
  
From his vantage point against the tree, Harrison could plainly hear the pants which were all his colleague could muster and, even louder, the porcine grunts of the alien as it methodically squeezed the life out of him. Panic lent Harrison the strength to act. Using the tree for support, the scientist forced his legs to move, dragging himself erect; from this position, he launched himself against the creature from behind, only to be brushed away as something no more annoying than a gnat. He caught himself before he could go down; the rough bark scraped his already raw fingers but he ignored it, concentration fixed desperately on the ground for a weapon. Dazed and sickened as he was, hand-to-hand would accomplish nothing; he needed a weapon of some sort.  
  
A glint of metal caught his eye, and he stooped to pick up the nickel- plated automatic Ironhorse had dropped. Repulsion creasing his boyish features, Blackwood cradled it carefully. It felt warm, almost alive, and perfectly weighted, balancing itself in his hand of its own accord. An instrument of precision, an aspect that appealed to the scientist in him, and fitting symbol of all Harrison Blackwood had ever hated.  
  
For less than a heartbeat, repugnance struggled with necessity before the latter banished it to the nether regions of consideration. Mimicking an action he'd watched Colonel Ironhorse do a hundred times over, Blackwood flicked off the safety and cocked the hammer. The range was not great, the angle perfect. With a roar like a thunderclap, the Beretta went off, filling the air with the sound of death. The alien jerked once when the bullet entered its brain, turning to face Blackwood with an expression of consummate hatred on its weathered features. Rather than collapsing, it simply released its captive and crumpled inward, already more liquid than solid.  
  
Ironhorse sagged the moment the alien freed him, dropping to the ground, gasping for breath. Blackwood left off his dulled observation of the creature's dissolution, distracted by the thump, staring instead mesmerized at the sun-kissed glint of steel still gripped in his fingers. He watched fascinated as the gun, held rock-steady in his right hand, began to quiver, imperceptibly at first, then more strongly. His face twisted in disgust, he opened nerveless fingers, allowing the weapon to fall to the soft earth.  
  
Ironhorse winced involuntarily as the gun hit, but relaxed when it didn't go off on impact. He turned sympathetic eyes upward, seeking the distressed blue ones of his friend, but Blackwood refused to look at him; with a wordless sigh, the scientist sank down to his knees at Ironhorse's side. "You okay?" he asked in a low voice.  
  
Ironhorse nodded. "I think so." He drew a painful breath, held it for several seconds, then released it slowly. "Had the wind knocked out of me." He hesitated, unsure of the proper tack to take with his mercurial friend. "Harrison?"  
  
Blackwood sighed again, cocking his head toward the sounds of battle at the warehouse. "Lot of fighting going on over there. Hope your people are winning."  
  
Ironhorse did too. He had little doubt about the matter, however. This team was even better trained than his last one, and Omega Squad was the best there was. "Harrison, are you all right?"  
  
There was a nod of the curly head, an abstracted grin widening his fine lips. "I hate guns," he answered simply. "I swore I'd never use one." He pulled up one knee and crossed his forearms across it, resting his chin on top. He sat staring at the melting alien as if it were the most interesting thing on earth.  
  
At a loss for something to say, Ironhorse cleared his throat. "You saved my life," seemed the most appropriate. "Thanks."  
  
"Pleasure," came the phlegmatic reply. Blackwood shifted his gaze from the alien body to a large black crow, who'd chosen that moment to light in the next tree. "Big sucker."  
  
"Uh ... yeah." They both watched the bird preen iridescent black wings, focusing on it as a way to avoid looking at each other. "I know how you feel about guns," the soldier offered at last. "I never knew why, but I'm sorry."  
  
"Not your fault, Colonel." He shifted until he was leaning shoulder-to- shoulder with the other man, close but carefully not touching. "You were helping me out, remember? I'd've hated to be responsible for y-- ... any loss of life."  
  
"You never have been, Harrison." Ironhorse offered this last quietly and with utter sincerity, knowing it was needed. The reaction to this was in Harrison's usual, unpredictable manner. He turned his head, finally meeting the other's dark eyes and fixing him with a smile so dazzlingly brilliant, it was as if the sun had risen twice that day.  
  
"I hate guns," he said, the smile faltering at the soldier's puzzled expression, "but I hate losing friends even more." It was then that each became aware of the cessation of the sporadic firing on the other side of the little hill. Ironhorse started to rise but his bruised stomach refused to cooperate for a time. "Weren't you supposed to be leading that attack?" Blackwood asked innocently.  
  
Ironhorse shrugged and rubbed his abdomen. "I saw something moving in this direction," he began, next feeling his ribcage lightly for signs of damage. "And since this was an unprotected boundary...."  
  
"With an unprotected professor?" Blackwood interjected with some irony.  
  
"Yes." Ironhorse cocked a dark brow ironically at him, unoffended by the mild sarcasm., "I sent Omega-B ahead with Stastny, and came back to secure the perimeter myself." Finished with his self-examination and finding no serious damage, Ironhorse leaned back against the tree with a sigh. "I've got to get to the battleground. Can you make it back to the checkpoint alone?" To that there was no immediate reply. The scientist merely straightened from his curl and sat regarding the other with so odd an expression, that the soldier squirmed. "What?"  
  
"In the last month since Suzanne and Norton were..." He stopped, choking on the words, then diving in with, "...killed, you haven't even given me the time of day. So why did you come back?" Despondency touched the back of his expressive eyes, bitterness entering his voice. "Or was it the unsecured perimeter you came back for after all?"  
  
The hit registered, eliciting a flicker of pain. "Harrison, I--" The small radio at his belt chirped, and he broke off to unhook it and flick it on. "Ironhorse."  
  
"Sergeant Dixon." The soldier's voice was tinny across the distance, but clear. "Area has been purified, sir. Last resistance eliminated."  
  
The Colonel exchanged a relieved look with Blackwood. "Very well, Sergeant. Establish a search party to double check your surroundings and arrange for all captured materials to be transferred to base for examination. I'll join you shortly."  
  
"Wilco, sir. Out." The air went dead.  
  
Ironhorse rehooked the radio and climbed easily to his feet. He stood looking solemnly down at the top of his friend's head, only the other man's averted face preventing him from seeing the fondness in the soldier's gaze. Faltering not at all, Ironhorse laid a hand on the other's shoulder. "I didn't come back for the perimeter, Harrison," he offered quietly, sensitive enough to know it needed to be said. It was Harrison's turn to be startled then; enjoying the rare event, Ironhorse offered him a grin and a hand. "Come on, there might still be some alien equipment that my men didn't blow to bits. I'll let you have first crack at the leftovers."  
  
*** 


	7. Chapter 7

The brandy glowed a rich amber by the firelight, the aroma alone a heady draught at the close of the day. Blackwood swirled the liquid thoughtfully while he listened to Ironhorse's report; the jeans clad soldier took a moment to sip from his own glass before continuing. "Dr. Belinda Lindstrom from Princeton was also approved as team leader at the Thompson BioLab. The rest of your recommendations went through, too; all except for Dr. ..." He consulted a clipboard balanced on one knee. "...Emil Burnstein. He's suspected of having Communist affiliations."  
  
Blackwood carefully marked the page of the book in his lap before closing it. "He probably does." He counted off the number of biologists approved by Army Intelligence for the new facility. "Belinda with Marshall and Lipman bring the count to seven at Thompson and another four working independently through the liaison."  
  
"Right." Ironhorse tapped the clipboard with one finger. "I'm assigning Lieutenant Rivera to implement security measures at the new site. He'll follow the same guidelines that we use here and at Omega base."  
  
Blackwood drew off his glasses and began to polish them absently on his flannel sleeve. "Did you ... hear back on my request to have Katya brought in on this?"  
  
Ironhorse dropped his eyes to his own drink, then raised his head, facing Blackwood's oblique inquiry directly. "Communique came in this morning. Your request was refused." He shifted uncomfortably. "I didn't impede the request," he asserted, answering the unasked question. "Dr. Rodchenko's people feel she could better serve as head of their domestic research program. All requests for her assistance were forwarded through the GRU."  
  
In the act of peering through his now smeared glasses, Harrison paused, his brow furrowed. "That's military intelligence, isn't it?"  
  
Ironhorse tossed over a box of tissues from the table. "It's been classified a military project, Harrison -- by both sides. That's why the clearance is so high."  
  
Pulling out a wad of kleenex from a box on the end table, Blackwood resumed his polishing, attention focused on the task. "Looks like Dr. Dickenson and I are going to have to muddle along alone."  
  
"Look, I tried...."  
  
That earned an apologetic smile. "I know you tried. I'm not blaming you for the stupidity of the military."  
  
Ironhorse paused, mouth open, then closed it again, unsure how to take that. "Where is Dr. Dickenson?" he asked, snatching at a safe subject.  
  
Blackwood gestured at the staircase with his glasses. "Went to bed. It's been a long day -- the old guy said he wanted to be up early to compare what we found out on that last mission to some of the questions we have on Q'Tara's physiognomy. He thinks he might see a correlation between the two technologies we can use."  
  
"I'd like to talk to him about that tomorrow." Ironhorse sipped his brandy again. "Tastes good."  
  
"It's not moonshine," Blackwood grinned, eliciting a shudder from the other man.  
  
"Don't even say the word, Doctor. I haven't recovered from the last of your hairbrained schemes yet."  
  
The tall physicist laughed out loud at that, the first time he'd done so in weeks. "Neither have I." He paused. "Paul? I was thinking about spending a few days at Clayton's cabin next week. Maybe do a little hiking before the snows come."  
  
"Do you want me to do a security check on the area?"  
  
"I'd rather you came with me." The scientist's invitation was quiet, still unsure. "We've both been working non-stop for the last couple of months now. Besides, I'd ... like some company."  
  
Both men jumped at a loud crackle from the open hearth, Ironhorse actually leaping to his feet. He studied the dancing flames for a moment, then drained his glass and set it carefully beside the box of tissues. "I'd be happy to join you, doctor," he replied formally. "You may need someone to watch your back while you're up there." So saying he turned and climbed the stairs.  
  
"Any excuse, Colonel," Blackwood murmured, warming the brandy between his palms. "Until we don't need them anymore." With that, he redonned his glasses and returned to his book.  
  
end 


End file.
